Grinning.
The man beside him wore mechanic’s coveralls and held a torque wrench.
The CEO looked at the single father.
“Who is this?”
“My wife’s grandfather.”
She looked again.
There were two others.
One was a young executive she recognized instantly despite the decades.
The current chairman.
The man who had served as her father’s closest business partner.
The man who had guided the company after the founder’s death.
The man who had mentored her after college.
The man who had recommended that morning’s garage redevelopment project.
The CEO stared at the photograph.
“What year?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
Her fingers tightened.
The single father walked toward the car.
“My wife’s grandfather was the fabrication lead on Project Twelve.”
“The company archives don’t list him.”
“I know.”
“They list three engineers.”
“I know.”
“He isn’t one.”
“I know.”
The CEO looked at him.
“Then prove it.”
He nodded.
“I can.”
The boy glanced at his father.
“You’re showing her everything?”
The single father hesitated.
“Yes.”
The boy looked uncertain.
The CEO noticed.
“What does that mean?”
The father placed one hand gently on his son’s shoulder.
“It means my wife made me promise something before she died.”
The CEO’s anger paused.
She had known from the redevelopment file that he was a widower.
She had not cared enough to ask when his wife died.
Now she asked.
“How long?”
“Four years.”
The boy lowered his eyes.
The CEO’s posture changed.
“I’m sorry.”
The father nodded once.
“Cancer.”
He did not elaborate.
He walked around the prototype toward the rear wheel.
“There’s a latch beneath the left sidepod.”
The CEO followed.
He crouched.
Pressed a narrow section of metal.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
The panel released with a small click.
Inside was a rectangular compartment.
Not part of any racing design.
A storage cavity.
The single father removed an oilcloth package wrapped in several layers of waxed canvas.
The CEO stared.
“You opened that before?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because the instructions said not to.”
“What instructions?”
The father looked toward an old metal cabinet.
“My wife left a letter.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“And you obeyed it for six years?”
“Yes.”
The CEO almost smiled bitterly.
“You are either extraordinarily disciplined or extraordinarily stupid.”
The boy muttered:
“Mom used to say both.”
The father looked at him.
The boy shrugged.
The CEO almost laughed.
Almost.